Midwestern winters blow ice storms and blizzards from the Rockies across the Great Plains to the Great Lakes. The prairies freeze into matted thatch. Grotesque sculptured ice gargoyles populate the shorelines, inhabiting the harbor pylons and piers until spring melts winter’s demonic hold on the land. This December day the snow scratched harder than usual against every window pane from the Rocky Mountains to Chicago. Temperatures hovered near zero. Roads disappeared in drifts. All transportation stopped. The storm locked every town and city in its grip, defying any human attempt to get on with the Christmas holidays. The blizzard threatened to extinguish all life that ventured out.
In every room of the Smith’s sumptuous suburban house, the telephones rang without being noticed. Angie Smith and her mother, Anna, were arguing.
“You want money for Christmas?” Anna could hardly believe her ears. “And, what presents will you open on Christmas morning?”
“Oh, Mom. You’re sooooo old-fashioned. I don’t want some stupid present you buy. I want to buy my own stuff. Just put an envelope with money under the tree. We’ll go to the mall the next day and cash in.”
“I don’t understand you, Angie. You used to love the holidays and opening presents on Christmas morning. How can you forget all our family traditions for Christmas?” Mrs. Smith asked, not believing her daugher’s change of heart. “So, what do you really want for Christmas?”
“Nothing! Just money!” Angie slammed her bedroom door. The wind blew harder in keeping with Angie’s frustration. Anna Smith stood straight-backed, holding back her tears like a soldier who has just been slapped by his commanding officer, her face contorted in confusion from the force of her daughter’s rejection. Placing her hand on the railing and stepping cautiously down the sweeping stairway to the cavernous front hall, Anna could not accept trouble in the Smith house at holiday time. Smoothing her hair and adjusting her dress, she gathered her composure. Then she took a punch bowl from the china cabinet and carried it into the kitchen.
“Marie,” Anna said as if nothing were wrong, “I’m so glad you could be here today. Your help makes a big difference to me. I want to thank you.”
“Oh, you’re welcome.” Marie Anderson busied herself wiping the already clean counter as an uncomfortable silence fell between them.
“This weather is really something, isn’t it?” Anna said.
“Yes, it is. The news reports are saying no one should venture out past dusk. I hope we can finish for your party so I can go home soon,” Marie said, putting the sponge into the ceramic holder on the sink. “This morning, when my car wouldn’t start, I thought the fuel pump might need to be replaced. But Joe at the gas station towed my car and told me he thought it was more than a fuel pump. Now this storm. I’m worried the busses might not be running on regular schedules and I—”
“Why don’t I take you home,” said Anna, interrupting Marie, “so you won’t need to wait outside in the cold. Let’s just put the desserts in the fridge and go. It’s nearly seven-thirty now.”
“Are you sure?” Relief spread across Marie’s face like calm on a windblown pond.
“Of course! Could you get our coats while I write a note for Angie?” she said, sticking the post-it to the fridge. “Let’s hurry—we’ll take the SUV.” The two women hurried into the garage just as the note slipped off its spot and fell to the floor, settling under the fridge, lost, never to be found.
_
Minutes later Marie and Anna drove from the relative safety of the cold garage into the darkening night. The snow fell so fast and so hard that the headlights cast only a dull glow, forcing their progress to a snail’s pace through the deepening powder.
Back in the house, Angie turned on her television to read SPECIAL REPORT splashed across the screen with a multi-image graphic of winter scenes.
“Power outages and severe storm warnings plague our forecast. Hundreds of cars are already stranded on impassable highways. Even snow plows are stranded in drifts. All interstate commerce has stopped until further notice. According to our weather maps, this blizzard won’t let up for several days. Grocery stores are out of food and no supply trucks can get through to restock the shelves . . . ”
Angie switched from channel to channel, getting the same news about the weather on every station. “Jeez! Can’t they talk about anything else?” She turned the television off in a huff and plopped down on the window seat. Staring from her window at the storm, Angie watched the coming of night with anger in her heart. The hypnotic rhythm of the storm calmed her rage. She wished that time would stand still for one night. In a haze of boredom Angie gave in to the urge to go to the kitchen in search of holiday treats.
“There won’t be a party,” she thought opening the refridgerator door. “No one will come out in this weather.” Humming to herself, she rearranged the platter to camouflage the missing eclair, three petite fours, and two whipped cream filled pastry swans. “I’ll just liberate a few of these goodies,” she said, pouring a large glass of milk. As she wedged the gallon jug back into the fridge, the lights flickered and died, drenching the kitchen in darkness.
“Mom?” No answer. “Mooooooommm!” An eerie silence proved she was completely alone. Angie balanced her plate and glass to free one hand so she could grope her way into the front hall. The blowing snow reflected some light. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the shadows as she made her way into the livingroom.
“I’ll light a fire,” she said to the silence. Watching the blue flame burst across the plaster logs of the gas fireplace, the warmth of the flames felt good. The golden firelight chased Angie’s fear from the room. Curling up on the couch, she polished off the plate of pastries. The milk brought on a drowsy peacefulness. Angie pulled her great-grandmother’s handmade afghan over her body, propped up a couple of pillows, snuggled into the cushions and slept, oblivious to events unfolding outside.
